


Bite Your Tongue, Choke Yourself

by Adoxography



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: (is it really incest if it's just a manifestation of your psyche that just LOOKS like your dad?), Bad BDSM Etiquette, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Impact Play, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pseudo-Incest, spoilers through to the end of S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Mr. Robot takes their truce very seriously. He's going to make sure Elliot gets what he needs with or without Elliot's help.





	Bite Your Tongue, Choke Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> This is the worst thing I've ever written. Please heed the tags. I wrote this directly after binging season 2 and 3 in three days with encouragement from my resident bad influence and favorite Beta Shell_and_Bone. Judge all you want but let he who is without kink cast the first shame.

“Elliot?” 

Dark circles under his eyes. His shirt is pressed but unbuttoned, tie crooked. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow. A few strands of Tyrell Wellick’s normally perfect hair have fallen onto his forehead. No, not normally perfect, publically perfect; Tyrell Wellick is a thinly veiled illusion of perfection, of control. 

The door is open and inside only the hall light is on. Odd, since he wasn’t sleeping; his clothes are disheveled, but not rumpled. His eyes are glassy, but not bloodshot. I lean in and I can smell it--vodka, cheap vodka at that. It smells like paint thinner. His eyes narrow. I’ve been staring too long without saying anything. 

“What are you doing here?” 

No point in lying. I tell him, “I don’t know.” The last thing I remember is sitting alone in my apartment. No, not alone. I’m never alone, not really. 

After a moment he steps aside, inviting me in. Should I accept? He wants me to accept. Mr. Robot, that is. Maybe Tyrell does, too. I can’t tell yet. Mr. Robot brought me here for a reason and we’ve decided to trust each other for the time being. I step inside and Tyrell closes the door behind me. 

The bottle was hidden on the side table behind the door, right beside a bowl of keys and an abstract sculpture of what might be a running man. Tyrell takes it and drinks; it’s only a quarter empty. He offers it to me and I take it. I don’t like the taste of liquor. I never acquired the palate for it; it all tastes like rubbing alcohol to me and I never got the point of getting drunk. There are other ways to forget, ones that didn’t taste like swallowing poison. I drink anyways and choke on it, coughing and sputtering like an amateur. Tyrell smirks at me and takes the bottle back, showing me up by taking long gulps, his pale throat bobbing with each swallow. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. Tyrell pauses and looks me over. I look at my feet; I’m wearing filthy sneakers. I see Tyrell is only wearing socks so I kick off my shoes, leaving them on the mat by the door. I remember Europeans take their shoes off inside. I take my hood down and run a hand through my hair. It’s damp, but my clothes aren’t. I must have showered before I left my place. 

I think I remember crying, or maybe I was just overwhelmed. I haven’t been sleeping much, or at all really, not since Mr. Robot and I reversed the 5/9 hack. I keep wondering when things will get better and yet every day I look out the window and the world still looks the same. There is rotting garbage on the side of the road, and furious protesters wear masks I made popular from a film none of them have ever seen. I’m scared to leave the house. I have an alert on my phone for news regarding the hack, but so far there has been nothing. I have to wonder why they’re keeping so quiet. I should ask Tyrell. but… 

“He brought you to me?” Tyrell is easy to read, painfully easy; I don’t know how he managed to get as far as he did with a face like his, expressive to a fault. What I read right now is hope. I can’t ask him about work right now, not when he’s looking at me like that. Mr. Robot told me Tyrell was in love with him. Until now, I thought he was being arrogant. I pity him. I know what it’s like to love someone that doesn’t really exist. 

“I’m right here, kid,” Mr. Robot snaps, “no need to be hurtful.” 

He’s sitting on the kitchen counter kicking his heels against the cupboards. Tyrell follows my gaze over his shoulder. 

“What am I doing here?” 

Tyrell stares at me, incredulous. “I asked you.” 

_ Shit _ . I need to get better at keeping it in my head. I must be tired. 

Tyrell looks back over his shoulder, to where Mr. Robot sits, grinning at me. 

“What are you looking at?” Tyrell demands. 

I take the bottle back from him and drink. This time I’m ready for the taste and though it burns, I don’t choke. “Can I sit?” 

Tyrell nods and leads me upstairs to his living room. It’s dark, but he turns on a single lamp for us. It is not enough light; the yellow glow is somehow less illuminating than the dark, perhaps because it darkens the shadows in the rest of the room. 

Tyrell sits on the sofa and I sit on the other end. The bottle sits on the coffee table between us, sweating and leaving a wet circle on the glass. Mr. Robot sits in the armchair across from us, ankle resting on his knee. His face is only dimly lit by the lamplight and the shadows exaggerate his expressions. He’s amused. He’s always amused. I want to know what his game is, but my head feels thick and cloudy like there’s cotton stuffed behind my eyes. I need sleep, but when I lay down and close my eyes, I’m left alone with my thoughts and I can’t stomach those, not right now. 

“No game. We called a truce, remember? Have a little faith.” 

I can’t afford to have faith. 

“Is something wrong?” 

_ Yes _ . 

“No.” 

“Then why are you here?” Mr. Robot asks me. Tyrell doesn’t say anything. He’s watching me stare at nothing. 

“I don’t know!” I snap. 

Tyrell jumps, but his eyes are still glued to that chair. He stands and walks over. His hand strokes the backrest with long, elegant fingers. He has the fingers of a pianist, or a programmer. 

“Who do you see?” He asks me. His voice is soft with wonder and I think he knows. 

“ _ Him _ ,” I reply. 

It’s Mr. Robot who grabs Tyrell by his belt and pulls him down to kneel before him. It’s Mr. Robot who grabs him by his hair and pushes his cheek against his thigh,  _ my  _ thigh. It’s my hand in his hair and I let go. My throat is too tight, I can’t breathe. His eyes look up at me, full of worship, but it fades when he sees my face. He knows it’s me now, not Mr. Robot. 

Mr. Robot sits on the sofa, arms draped over the backrest. He’s pleased with himself. Does he want me to hurt Tyrell? 

Mr. Robot sighs, disgusted with me. He walks over and grabs Tyrell by the chin. Tyrell doesn’t fight, doesn’t struggle. His eyes are wide and his mouth is slack. Mr. Robot shoves a thumb into Tyrell’s mouth. 

“I need you to take care of something for me,” Mr. Robot tells him. Tyrell just nods, his tongue is hot on my fingers and then I don’t feel him anymore as Mr. Robot continues. “The kid is wound so tight he’s about to snap both of us in half. Get him out of his head, take care of it.” Mr. Robot takes his thumb out of Tyrell’s mouth, wiping it on his cheek. 

Tyrell nods, panting. “Any requests?” 

“I trust your judgement,” Mr. Robot replies. Then he walks away, stalking back to the sofa so he can watch me with his hard, unflinching gaze. I stare back. I can’t look away, even as Tyrell stands and puts a hand on my cheek.

He looks at me, and then at the sofa behind him. “Is he still here? Is he watching?” His voice is low and rough— he’s aroused. Is he aroused by him, or me? He’s following orders. He likes that? 

“Yes,” I tell him. 

Tyrell runs hands through my hair, fingers hard on my scalp. I think it feels good, but I’m not used to being touched like this. I think to push him away, but the stern look on Mr. Robot’s face has me thinking better of it. If I push Tyrell away, he’ll just take over again, and I don’t hate this. We’re supposed to trust one another again. We called a truce, so maybe I’ll trust him, just for a little while. At least for now, I’m in control. 

“When you see him,” Tyrell says, his words careful and slow, “what does he look like? Does he look like you?” 

My heart is stuck in my throat beating like a busted stopwatch, fast, too fast. 

“Tell him,” Mr. Robot commands. I’m tired. I’m too tired to fight him. 

“No,” I tell Tyrell. “He doesn't look like me.” 

Tyrell is disappointed until I elaborate. “He looks like my dead father.” 

Tyrell is delighted, his eyes dark and hungry. He’s ready to tear me open and pull out Mr. Robot with his bare hands. That’s what he wants. That’s who he really wants. 

“And he’s watching us, right now. You can see him?” Reverence, arousal, disgust--it’s all mixed up on Tyrell Wellick’s expressive face. He loves it. He’s disgusted by me. I find it hard to care, hard to think about him when Mr. Robot is sitting there with a palm over his crotch, not moving, just resting, waiting. 

I nod. I can’t force words out of my tight throat. 

“Do you know what he wants from us?” 

_ Us _ . Not you, not me, the two of us together. He’s made his request and now we must obey. He’d never been there before when I was still with Shayla. I hadn’t known back then, or I’d forgotten. I never thought what it would be like, sex, with him there. I am disgusted to find I’m not repelled by the thought. I nod. 

“Why?” I ask. It comes out thin and high. I sound childish. 

Tyrell’s expression shifts again--it’s confidant, collected. This is the man that stood over my work station at Allsafe, the man who offered me a job at E-Corp. “He knows I can help you. Will you let me?” 

We’re going to have sex. It’s a testament to how desperate I must be that I don’t question it. Do I trust Tyrell? No, but...

“You don’t have to trust him,” Mr. Robot whispers in my ear. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Am I tired, lonely, horny? Maybe I’m all of them at once, just like everybody else on this miserable planet. I want to trust him, and I’m too tired/lonely/horny to walk away. 

“Do it,” I say to Tyrell. Mr. Robot kisses him and then he steps away again, leaving me with my mouth pressed to Tyrell’s soft lips. 

Tyrell’s fist is in my hair and he’s pulling it back, hard, harder than I expected. It hurts. I shout. He bites my neck. I look over at Mr. Robot. Is this what he meant? Was violence and pain supposed to be my cure? Mr. Robot smiles back at me and I know he’s not going to help me, not yet. I understand the game now. Tyrell isn’t going to stop unless Mr. Robot tells him to. I’m in my body, but I am not the one in control. 

“Come with me.” Tyrell offers me his hand and I take it. He lets go once I am on my feet, but he expects me to follow. He leads me to his bedroom, the bedroom he once shared with Johanna. I feel guilty. I had nothing to do with her death. I hardly spoke with her, but still I feel this weight on my chest when I see their bed. It’s neatly made with crisp dark sheets and steel rings installed around the frame. Is Tyrell going to use those tonight? 

“No,” Mr. Robot tells me, “and if he asks to tie you down, you say no, you don’t need that.” 

I thought I didn’t get any say in the matter, but that’s not important right now. Right now Tyrell is pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and ordering me to, “Strip.” 

I hesitate, but Mr. Robot expected that because he’s already here unzipping my hoodie and pushing it down off my shoulders and onto the floor. My shirt comes next and as my clothing pools at my feet, I see Tyrell’s irritation flare at the lack of care. Mr. Robot is teasing him. When I unbuckle my own belt and take off my jeans, I kick them off my feet in the same haphazard way. 

When I’m naked, Tyrell grabs me by the back of my neck and pushes me over the end of the bed. I kneel on the floor with my face in the soft sheets. They smell clean. Everything in this house smells clean, everything except Tyrell who stinks of cheap vodka. My hands are clasped in front of me almost like I’m praying. I’m not, and if I were to worship a god, it would not be one as vain and petty as Tyrell Wellick. 

“Are you going to hold still for me? Or do you want me to restrain you?” Tyrell asks, though I don’t think he’s asking me.  _ He _ has already given me my instructions. 

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. 

I go to look over my shoulder, but his hand is in my hair again, pushing my face back down into the mattress. “What part of ‘Are you going to hold still?’ is difficult for you?” His voice is angry, but it’s false anger--a show, a game. I don’t try and turn my head again. 

I’m not sure what part of this is supposed to help me. Do I want to have sex with Tyrell? Is that why I’m still here? It all comes back to that question, doesn’t it? Is it Tyrell, or am I just tired/lonely/horny? Does it matter anymore? 

When Tyrell hits me, I shout, shock and fury coming out of my mouth all at once. I wasn’t focusing on him, wasn’t paying enough attention and he caught me unaware. I go to stand up, to pull away, but hands hold my wrists to the bed. Mr. Robot is on the bed in front of me on his hands and knees, pinning my wrists with his full strength. He wants me here, and he wants me hurting. 

Tyrell hits me across my thighs, my back, my ass. He is hard and precise and it hurts like hell. Whatever he is using feels thick and heavy, like a belt. I almost turn to look, but Mr. Robot grabs me by the chin and keeps me looking forwards. 

“Trust me,” he says. I don’t anymore. This hurts. Tyrell told me about killing that woman, I wonder if he might do the same to me. 

“Stop.” Tyrell does not stop. I try again louder, “Stop!” My plea is interrupted by another violent strike, hitting a tender bruise and forcing a yelp from my throat. 

“Trust me.” I can’t tell if it’s Tyrell or Mr. Robot who says it. 

The sheets are wet under my cheek. I’m crying, or I have been. My ears are ringing, but in the distance I can hear what sound like sobs. Are they mine? Everything feels far away and yet I feel everything. I am solid and I am floating. I am inside my body and out of it. I am myself and I am Mr. Robot. 

Mr. Robot runs a hand through my hair. “That’s right, kid. You’re getting it now.” He shushes me. I didn’t know I was being loud. “You’re going to be alright.” 

The pain has stopped. I think it’s been stopped for a while now. My skin is on fire, hot and pulsing. Cool, gloved, fingers are drawing lines down my back, over my ass and thighs. There is a finger pressed against my asshole and I think Tyrell wants to fuck me. I look up at Mr. Robot for confirmation, but he’s not looking at me; he’s gazing over me with an approving smile. 

Tyrell’s finger pushes inside me, cold and wet. Mr. Robot holds my wrists down with one hand and strokes my cheek with the other. Every touch is overwhelming me. I can’t think. 

I don’t realize I’m shouting until Mr. Robot clamps a hand over my mouth. Tyrell reaches over me and rips my hand away. “I want to hear it. I want to hear you lose control.” 

I can hear myself from far away, an echo from the end of a tunnel. I think I’m swearing; I know I’m crying. I stop listening, I start feeling. Tyrell’s finger isn’t inside me anymore. He’s pressing his dick into me slowly, but it’s still too fast. I hadn’t realized I was hard until I start to lose my erection. The pleasure flags until Tyrell smacks a tender spot on my ass with an open palm. There is a rush, so fast it makes my head spin, makes me dizzy and nauseous. 

“Hang in there, kiddo,” says Mr. Robot. His lips are on my forehead, tender, fatherly. I’m disgusted and yet as Tyrell settles into me, I’m getting hard again. 

My whole body throbs with my heartbeat. Tyrell’s thrusting grinds my dick against the mattress. He’s not gentle, but I don’t think he'll slow down even if I ask. His lips are on my shoulder and he’s muttering something. I can’t hear the words; all I can hear is my pulse in my ears.  _ Shit _ , I’m high. Did I take morphine? No, I threw it out, and Mr. Robot doesn’t like the drugs. I would remember. 

“Stop thinking,” says Mr. Robot. “Just let it all go.” 

That’s when I understand; I’m weak to this high. I stop fighting it. I give in. 

Tyrell fucks me with a hand in my hair, yanking my head back. His thighs smack my sore ass and that pulsing heat returns to my skin with each slap. I can’t do anything but feel my blood rush through my body, feel his dick inside me. Tyrell lets go of my hair so he can wrap his hands around my throat. The angle means he can’t entirely cut off my airway, but he can make me lightheaded, make black spots appear in my periphery. Sex was never like this before; it feels fucking amazing. 

And just like that, everything is too much. I thrash wildly, trying to throw Tyrell off me, trying to rip my hands out of Mr. Robot’s grip. Tyrell pulls out and after a moment, he ejaculates on my back. 

I lay there, facedown on the bed, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe. I’ve made a mess of the sheets. Tyrell will be furious. I don’t give a shit. 

A warm washcloth on my back startles me from my thoughts and brings me back to my body. Tyrell wipes the cum and lube off my back, my ass, my thighs. He’s careful dragging it across the tender areas he’d beaten. I could laugh, it feels so incongruous with the rest of the night, in fact it seems that I do. My body shakes and a weak noise wheezes from my throat. 

I’m coming down. The pain is coming back, hot and aching. Everything feels more solid, more tangible. It’s less like morphine now, more like pot. Someone encourages me to roll onto my back and I hiss as my throbbing backside is pressed against the sheets. My stomach and thighs are sticky. I must have come, though I hardly felt it over everything else. 

Tyrell must have been the one to turn me over since the washcloth is back, cleaning my stomach and my flaccid dick. He sighs through his teeth at the mess on his bed. I’m too tired to get any pleasure from his irritation or the gentle treatment. 

“These sheets cost more than your apartment,” Tyrell grumbles. I can’t do anything but laugh. He stares at me with his cold eyes. He’s still dressed with his shirt rolled up to his elbows, still wearing those blue nitrile gloves. The only indication that he’d just been fucking me is his hair, now completely disheveled and stuck to his damp forehead. 

“Do you want to sleep here?” he offers, though I don’t know if he’s talking to me or Mr. Robot. 

I don’t have it in me to reply, so Mr. Robot does it for us. “Only if you actually let the kid sleep.” 

“The way you talk about him makes much more sense now I know how he sees you.” 

Mr. Robot grins. “We’re a piece of work, aren’t we?”

“You and him?” Tyrell asks. 

“All of us,” Mr. Robot replies. 

I let him take over. I let him push me aside and take our body to bed. I suppose this was his game, too, showing me how good it can be to have someone else take the wheel. If he thinks I don’t see what he’s trying to do, he’s in for a nasty shock. If I can convince myself that it isn’t exactly what I want right now, I’d be delusional… more delusional than I already am. 

It isn’t until the lights are out, until I’m naked under the sheets, that Mr. Robot lets me feel Tyrell Wellick’s hand on my hip, his breath on the back of my neck; there is enough distance between our bodies that the hand does not bother me like it normally would. Does Tyrell know it’s me right now and not Mr. Robot? Can he feel it under his warm, dry, palm? Does he care? Do I? 

I don’t ask him any of the things that bounce around in my brain like rubber balls in a tumble dryer. Was what he did tonight only because Mr. Robot told him to? Did he like it even though it was me? Did he like it because it was me? Do I want him to like me? 

“Jesus, can you pipe down for five fucking minutes? You’re really defeating the purpose of the exercise here.” Mr. Robot sits at the edge of the bed, arms crossed. He glares down at me, eyes flashing in the dark. I stare back, I’m too tired to reply with any surety that I’ll do it in my head and not out loud. 

“You’re so goddamn insecure, worried he’s not gonna ask you to prom?” Mr. Robot taunts me; no, he’s just saying what I’m already thinking. When I still don’t reply, Mr. Robot sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Just remember, you were the one he saw first.” 

Mr. Robot is right. It was me Tyrell saw at Allsafe. It was me Tyrell offered a job at E-Corp to. 

“Now shut the hell up and let me sleep.”

For the first time in four days, for the first time since we reversed the 5/9 hack, I do sleep, and it feels fucking amazing. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Hang in there Kiddo" wins the award for WORST sentence I've written in my whole life when you take context into consideration. I'm shameless.


End file.
